


Sharp Teeth

by misura



Category: Soon I Will Be Invincible - Austin Grossman
Genre: Community: older_not_dead, Dubious Morality, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:43:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evil scientist and his psycho catguy not-boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp Teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddmonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddmonster/gifts).



> prompt: ?/?, Your sharks have gotten fat

I think I might be suicidal. It's a risk, in our line of work. At some point, you just start to feel that you've done it all, seen it all and would really rather not get caught dead wearing the t-shirt. There's always someone new, someone up and coming, and just that bit more photogenic than you are.

Not just supervillains; it goes for heroes, too.

A lucky few get to go out with a bang, like Galatea. Most of us aren't so lucky. Most of us go from Emperor of the Earth (albeit without a throne) to a small article on page six to being a nobody.

 

I don't think I might be drunk.

I _know_ I am drunk. For other people, this might serve as an excuse, an explanation for what happens next. Me, I'm not that lucky.

You don't really think the Scientist Supreme wouldn't be able to figure out when he's had one too many, do you? I'm the smartest man in the world, and I am fully aware when my judgment has been impaired.

I am also fully aware that I should probably kidnap a doctor at some point to take a look at some nasty scratches on my back. Although they're not that bad, really; maybe it would be enough to just get a nurse. Nobody's going to put me on the front page for kidnapping a nurse, though.

 

"Your sharks have gotten fat," Feral says.

Abducting a (former) member of the Champions would definitely have been good for a headline or two. Unfortunately, Feral isn't exactly here because I kidnapped (catnapped?) him.

He's not even exactly here because I want him here. Which is not to say I _don't_ want him here, just that I don't feel like what I want has much to do with our current situation.

It's complicated.

"Animal rights activists," I explain. They get everywhere, and unlike heroes, they can't take a lot of punishment. They're just ordinary humans, after all. They die easily, and messily, and they do absolutely horrible things to your public image.

I mean, I'm a supervillain. People expect me to be evil.

There's a difference, though, between impersonating the Pope and saying Jesus is okay with abortions and gay marriage, and killing a bunch of men and women for reminding you baby seals are cute.

It's a matter of degrees.

Feral makes a sound somewhere in between a grumble and a growl.

"I have to feed them regularly, or they're going to be camped out on my front lawn for weeks." Not that this island has got anything so civilized as a front lawn, but I know that won't stop these people.

"Hey." Feral looks up. His eyes are bloodshot, and if I got close enough, I'd probably smell the alcohol on his breath. "Is that what happened to that guy from last week? What was his name again, Alan?"

"Alfred. His mother was in an accident, so he took some leave." Sometimes, I really don't understand heroes at all. Then again, it's not as if _they_ ever display any particular care for my ever incompetent henchmen. Me, I have to look at least a little bit good for the cameras, which usually means they try not to hit me in the face too much.

Feral looks disappointed. It's a pity I have absolutely no diabolic masterplans that require psycho catguy killers. I suppose I could send him on a mission to kill his former colleagues or something, but what would be the point? Besides, it's so not my style.

"Can I see, next time?"

"Sure." I have an arrangement with some meat factories. Their waste, my way of keeping Greenpeace out of my hair. It's a strange world we're living in.

 

Feral snores. Loudly.

He never wakes up when I want him to. Once he's asleep, he's asleep, and no amount of prodding, poking or threatening is going to get him to open his eyes again.

The moment I wriggle out of bed to go to the bathroom, though, he's up and pouncing before I've even made it halfway to the door.

I suppose some people might find it exciting or even arousing to get pinned down to their bedroom floor by a hundred-and-sixty-five pounds of feline human. I'm not one of them.

"Are you trying to sneak out on me?"

I make a mental note to select a doctor to kidnap first thing tomorrow morning. The way my back is feeling, I'll need him. "No. Just headed for the bathroom."

He blinks once, catlike, then he gets off of me and curls up again in the middle of the bed. When I get back. I'll be lucky to squeeze in; more likely, I'll get out some extra blankets and head for the couch.

I don't know why anyone in their right minds would want to get a cat.

Maybe it's just that a cat gets _them_ and they, like me, don't quite know how to get rid of it, or even if they really want to, when the alternative is not having any company at all.

Or maybe it's true love, after all. Who can tell.


End file.
